


Petal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8697313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas makes the summer crown.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Legolas/Thranduil -- something that is not dysfunctional” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are a thousand trees clustered around the keep that he could lounge in, but this is his favourite—the high branches, so far above the ground that the river below can hardly be seen through the leaves, are perfectly arched in a comfortable perch. Better still, it rises just above a rounded balcony that his father often drifts to, though the guards always protest—their king should not be so easily reached. Thranduil, a more than capable warrior, still does as he wishes, and Legolas, regardless of the many expensive chairs his father’s had carved for him, still prefers this tree.

So he sits in it now when his travels have passed, the supplies he searched for now cradled deftly in his lap. His fingers don’t hold their usual grace—they’re hampered with the weight of bandages. The shredded poison of a spider slipped through them. But he wrapped himself up and is sure he’s on his way to mending, and he still has the dexterity enough for this: twisting together a new crown for his father’s head. Meludir asked, once, when he would wear one of his own. But Legolas isn’t that kind of prince, and he knows his father will appreciate it more. 

He just finished the arced ends, meant to swoop just over pointed ears, when he hears telltale footsteps storming across the stone inside. The sun has begun to set, but there’s still enough light to see through the opened doors of the balcony. Sure enough, Thranduil sweeps onto it. He bends his head back to glare at Legolas’ tree and asks, “What are you doing up there?”

“Weaving,” Legolas idly answers. He doesn’t bother to catch Thranduil’s eye, rather tilting his craft in his hands to inspect the finished piece. It sports the brilliant red leaves of summer: it should be time, any day now, for Thranduil to change with the season. 

But Thranduil likely can’t see that from where he stands below, and he hisses coldly up, “I hear you should be in bed resting. Feren tells me that you were out with Tauriel, expressly against my wishes, and that you were wounded for your efforts.”

Legolas winces at that, not for his father’s jealousy but the shame of his cuts. He _is_ better than that, but they were ambushed by too many. He holds his hand out, letting the tan-coloured bandages catch in the sun, and says, “My injuries are miniscule. They will heal swiftly.” With a pause and some thought, he looks down to add, “And you should afford Tauriel some gratitude—I would have far greater wounds if not for her.”

Thranduil’s eyes flare. A part of Legolas enjoys the possessiveness, and another part jumps to the defense of a friend. Thranduil grits out, “So you admit yourself, my prince and heir, that you have grown less capable than some lowly Silvan archer?”

Legolas’ frown severely deepens. He can feel the shame tinting his cheeks. To save them another argument, he swallows that bile down and answers quietly, “She is the captain of your guards.”

Her talent is boundless. Thranduil appointed her himself. And he falters with that, but Legolas’ tone, he thinks, is what truly disarms his father. Thranduil’s face softens, and he doesn’t push the matter further. 

Instead, he sighs, “Come down, Legolas,” and he holds his hands apart. Legolas looks at them, at the sturdy warrior he’s always admired, and slowly nods his head. He pushes from his favourite tree and drops right into his father’s arms, not at all surprised when Thranduil catches him with ease. He’s always loved to climb. Thranduil, no matter how frustrating and difficult, has always been there. 

Cradling Legolas safely against his chest, Thranduil presses a chaste kiss to Legolas’ forehead and warns, “Be careful, my little leaf.”

Legolas is not so little anymore. But he abides the advice and reaches to pluck the current crown of spring flowers from Thranduil’s head. Only for Legolas does Thranduil allow this. As Legolas tucks the new one into place atop his father’s perfect hair, Thranduil asks, “Is that what you were doing? Collecting leaves?”

“Only the best for my king,” Legolas returns. Sometimes he wishes he could find more exotic things to add, but then, this is fitting: Thranduil wears as he rules. Legolas adjusts it into place, tucking stray hairs away from the dark branches of the base and settling the ends around the elegant shells of Thranduil’s ears. “I know my ada likes to remain fashionable.”

“Not at my son’s peril,” Thranduil snorts. But there’s gratitude in his eyes.

Legolas finally finishes his work and explains, “I also like to know that your crown comes from my hands and no one else’s, and no matter how we trouble ourselves, I am still held dear to you.”

There’s never any doubt. Even when they fight. He wraps his arms around Thranduil’s neck afterwards, catching in the curtain of silk-soft hair, and tilts his head to bring their mouths together. He means it to be smooth and sentimental, but Thranduil sears into him with a sudden strength that steals Legolas’ breath away. His tongue is sucked into Thranduil’s mouth, his body scooped all the closer, the one hand close enough fisting in his hair for a sharp but pleasant tug. Thranduil holds such _fire_.

And Legolas melts eagerly into it, until Thranduil pulls back to leave him breathless. Eyes held fast, Thranduil growls, “You will _always_ be precious to me, more so than any other.” Legolas’ heart swells, cheeks flushed and body warm. He goes in for another kiss, but before their lips can connect, Thranduil mutters, “Which is why I simply cannot let you out again while you are injured.”

With that, he turns on the spot, and marches back inside, Legolas still tucked lovingly against him. Legolas rolls his eyes but bears it, only because he has a feeling it isn’t _his_ bed he’s being brought to.


End file.
